Food For Thought (A Bing Ji Ling Feature by David Evans)
Monday, 14 February 2011
Written by David Evans
Talk about living on cloud-cuckoo land: there’s me thinking that just because I made a point of not being sidetracked by all that cookery jizz-jazz, everybody would sit up and take notice. Yeah, well, serves me right for being cocky …
No sooner had … oops, there I go again: rabbiting on as if the world and his wife must have read my latest article.
Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just that when I wrote about corporate rock stars, I wasn’t expecting Stereoboard’s music-loving regulars to be all that interested in my culinary experience.
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to suggest that I was besieged like some foodie Mr Fixit with come-to-bed-eyes and a quarterback’s physique, but the requests for recipes and advice made me wonder whether I was wrong to have rubbished the smarmy TV chef for saying that cookery was the new rock 'n' roll … and no, it wasn’t that Gino D’Acampo fella, although I can’t help thinking his defence team missed a trick: maybe if they had run with that particular line in mitigation, he might not have copped a two-year stretch for stealing four-thousand quid’s-worth of Paul Young’s guitars.
But that’s as maybe, and given that dimming someone else’s candle won’t make my own shine any brighter, here’s hoping that my all-smiling about-face will keep the home cooks happy.
So slip on your pin-stripped pinnies and sharpen up your Sabatiers and let’s get cracking with my own take on stuffed marrow.
Okay, okay, pitched against old Heston’s snail porridge, or even the salt ’n’ chilli prawns from the takeaway up the road, this ration-book classic is more Jim Reeves than Eminem, I’ll grant you, but wait until you’ve tasted my version; it will knock your socks off. I promise.
And because I know you’re going to love it, I suggest you shop around for a big mother: something around ten pounds should do the trick. You’ll also need five pounds of Demerara sugar, thereabouts.
First and foremost, cut off the stalk end; scoop out all the seeds with a long-handled spoon and fill the cavity with the sugar … and that’s it, more or less. All you have to do now is stick the end back on with some gaffer tape or something similar, and cover the whole kit and caboodle with a nylon stocking; any old sort will do just as long as it’s strong enough to hang your handiwork over a glass bowl.
Now store it in a warm place and after ten days or so, top up the sugar and re-seal. A week or so later, poke a couple of drain holes in the bottom of the marrow and sit back and wait … a quick word of warning: the marrow will eventually collapse; not a problem if you used regular nylons or tights – the fine-mesh makes a perfect sieve. But it’s a messy old game if any of you rock chicks used your old designer-ripped fishnets.
Anyway, once you’ve drained off the juice and let it settle, that’s it: Marrow rum. 80° proof. Wicked!
Alright, alright, it’s not that funny, I’ll grant you; but don’t all rush to do me down just because it doesn’t supplement your 5-a-day … in fact, if like me you’re fed up with pop music’s culture of lies, you’ll come to thank me for the recipe, just you wait and see.
Okay, you might not think so when you smell it for the first time, and I dread to think what connoisseurs of fine cognac would have to say about the bouquet, but as the members of Take That get ready to hit the road and Robbie Williams starts spinning that old line about not meaning what he said about Gary Barlow and the band, pour yourself a glassful and take a good sniff: it might make your eyes water, but I guarantee it will overpower the foul stench of deceit.
And it gets better … certainly anyone who can remember their Gran giving them a teeny tot of brandy to settle an upset tummy will think so as Michael Jackson’s hangers-on strive to milk their cash cow from the grave: The glorification of his latest album – a collection of nothing more than his musical cast-offs – is enough to make anyone who cherishes his memory as a perfectionist feel sick. But take my word for it: a good slug of this stuff will at least stop you throwing up.
Needless to say, you can’t keep hitting the bottle every time something makes you feel queasy, and there hangs the rub: the legion of money grubbers won’t give up. The golden goose will never be allowed to rest in peace; there’s too much at stake – ask any rap fan about Tupac Shakur who has somehow conjured up eight albums since he was gunned down in 1996.
And as if to show that creativity can’t be snuffed out by a hail of bullets, he even launched his own clothing brand in 2003 … and before you heartless clever-dicks chip in with your tuppen’orth, let me say that it amounts to a whole lot more than a snappy line in shrouds.
So now that Tupac has shown that death needn’t stand in the way of earning your corn, it’s not hard to imagine what lies in store for Jacko’s die-hards who can’t tell the difference between the sound of ringing cash registers and his tarted-up rejects … oh, and we haven’t heard from Bubbles yet, but if sales of Michael take a tumble, don’t bet against these snake-oil pedlars trotting out a tearful ape whisperer to explain how the chimp is convinced that the knackers yard beckons unless animal lovers everywhere rally round.
Okay, I’ll grant you, that’s me being cynical, but even so, nothing I can say or do will shame these shysters; whether they be the desperate freeloaders or the record company executives who greet an artist’s obituary as if it were a ‘brokers-buy’ notice from Goldman Sachs.
And so, given that I’m already gagging on this taste of what’s to come, you would think I’d be stocking up on marrows and brown sugar; but sadly, when it comes to me and booze, three is too many and eighteen’s not enough, so I’ll just settle for a whopping great helping of ice cream … and by that, I don’t mean one of those knickerbocker glorys as tall as Kylie in her stocking feet, or a double banana split with everything. No, what I have in mind is Bing Ji Ling which, as you students of oriental languages will know, is Mandarin for ice cream … it is also the nom de plume of Quinn Luke, a mega-talented musician, songwriter and producer based in New York City.
To date, he has released two albums, an EP and a handful of 12″ singles, all of which he wrote, recorded and co-produced. And, as if that isn’t enough to keep him out of mischief, he plays guitar with the Phenomenal Handclap Band and is a member of the legendary Tommy Guerrero’s group.
Surprisingly – and I use that word only because his shoulder-length hair and love of hippy-era jackets might lead you to think he’s the guitarist with a 70’s prog-rock tribute band (Emerson, Luke and Palmer is as corny as it gets, but you get my drift). Surprisingly, his music embraces all that is good about soul and funky R&B.
Now although there are a blinkered few who maintain that this genre is the preserve of Afro-Americans, the blue-eyed soul of countless musicians has rendered that concept redundant.
Go back a generation and artists like The Average White Band, The Dooby Brothers and to a large extent, Steely Dan were early pioneers. In more recent years, the likes of Robert Palmer and Curtis Stigers and George Michael rode to stardom on the back of soul and funk and R&B music. And no doubt, dependant on your perception of the genre, you’ll have your own favourites: Bono reckons that Liam Ó Maonlaí of Hot House Flowers is the man, while James Brown puts his weight behind Rod Stewart ….
And I’m not here to argue: certainly not with Bono; not since he’s taken to hobnobbing with popes and presidents … and definitely not since the Broadway critics savaged his Spiderman musical. No siree. I’m simply suggesting that Quinn Luke’s albums – whether it be his first release, Doodle Loot Doot Doodle ADoo (that’s right) or Ice Cream and Fire, or even his wonderful EP, June Degrees in September –are so damn good; so steeped in pure undiluted soul that he has earned his place alongside any of these modern-day greats.
In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that if you imagine a super-duper jukebox racked up with all manner of soul and R&B classics, then a dozen or so tracks from Quinn’s back catalogue wouldn’t be out of place, or overshadowed by the best of George Benson or Bill Withers or even Stevie Wonder, come to that.
His soaring falsetto on a cover version of AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long would bring a smile – or even a tear – to anyone who remembers how good Terence Trent D’Arby was when he burst on to the scene … and dare I say it? there are even a few funky latino sounds that will have you checking the labels to see if Prince had a hand in the production … and when you catch me showering praise like that, you could be forgiven for thinking that I’m a founder member of Quinn Luke’s fan club when, if the truth is known, up until 3 weeks ago I’d never even heard his name let alone his music. Nor does it spare my blushes any to say that were it not for the diligence of a PR contact, I’d still be in the dark.
So step forward Gillian Million and take a well-deserved bow … no, take two: the second for more or less making sure I’m not at the back of the queue when Bing Ji Ling’s new album is released.
Okay, maybe I’m over-indulging the turn of phrase, but make no mistake about it, March 28th will be a red-letter day for those who appreciate a modern take on great soul music … and providing good taste isn’t a thing of the past, Shadow To Shine will be a long-term fixture in the album charts.
To start with, it is produced by the ever-inventive team of Sean Marquand and Daniel Collas; their genius shines through on every track. And whilst members of Antibalas, Scissor Sisters and the superb Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings make outstanding contributions, their presence is as much a show of respect for one of the industry’s genuine nice guys.
There’s a wonderful track entitled Sunshine Love which I’ve heard described as ‘yacht rock’, and although my seafaring experience is limited to the unremitting bedlam of cross-Channel booze-cruises, Quinn’s vocal warmth and the laid-back arrangement make it easy to imagine what it must be like lounging on the gleaming deck of an eight-berth cruiser bound for some tropical island where a colony of cricket-loving beauty queens have perfected the art of making wine not dissimilar to the great white Burgundies of the Côte … sorry. Sorry. I was miles away. That’s how his music grabs you.
And that’s just one of 3 or four stand-out tracks … no, make that five or 6, and although I’m loathe to single out one in particular, with a twisted arm, I’d opt for Hypnotized if only because the catchy vocals and the inventive arrangement might wipe the smug grin from Mark Ronson’s handsome face.
And yet, in the context of this article, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness when I listen to the opening track, Move On. It’s not that the song is a tear-jerker, far from it. In actual fact, it’s an upbeat, infectious nod towards Sly Stone in his sixties heyday … it’s also the kind of song that would have suited Michael Jackson down to a tee.
In the same poignant vein, Shadow To Shine is released on Tummy Touch records, and given that the label’s founder, Tim ‘Love’ Lee and his right-hand man, Matt Smith share Quinn’s reputation as genuine nice guys, I can’t help but wonder how they reacted when Sony’s 5-album deal with old papa Jackson (by coincidence, exactly half the number Michael recorded when he was alive and kicking) threatened to tarnish the industry as a whole.
I would like to think that their commitment to new music and fresh talent meant that neither Tim nor Matt lost any sleep. But if they were even the slightest bit sickened by the blatant greed, I hope my recipe for marrow rum comes in handy.
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Anyway, once you’ve drained off the juice and let it settle, that’s it: Marrow rum. 80° proof. Wicked!
